(My Mother when she was not much older than I am now)
Six years ago today my mother succumbed, finally losing her 12 year battle with COPD. Ironically, she’d quit smoking eight years prior to her diagnosis. Perhaps more ironically, her sixth and final deliberate suicide attempt had taken place about two years after she savored her final cigarette. And most ironic of all, she ultimately did manage to do herself in...
My mother was complicated. The striking beauty and light she possessed were twisted by her fears and insecurities. By the wounds and scars she had suffered. She spent most of her life running away from herself, trying to be someone - anyone - else. And desperately driven to be the rarest, finest animal in the zoo. Anyone standing in her way became a casualty.
Thus the monster who raised me was not truly my mother. I need to believe that.
In the course of her time here on earth she reinvented herself more times than I know, more times than I can count. She repeatedly changed her name, her behavior, her style and appearance, her interests and passions, her friends and beliefs and even her history. No one truly knew who she was. I surely didn’t. And the saddest part is that I do not think she did either.
The wounds and scars that come from being raised by someone so damaged never go away. The best one can hope for is transcendence. But that can only happen with complete honesty and the courage to look the demons straight in their eyes and finally see them for who they truly are. Isn’t that what forgiveness really is?
I’ve been writing a book about her with stories and observations illustrated by reimagined edits of photos from her life. My goal is to expose her, reinvent her, and hopefully heal her - and myself - in the process.
I’ve been writing it for several years now. And I believe I’m finally ready to give it one more polish and then publish it. I think I’ll use Steemit as my workshop.
We are both ready for the transformation.
